


normal

by leggyman



Series: MCYT One-Shots / Short Stories [19]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Sleepy Bois Inc, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Ableism, Anxiety, Author Projecting onto Technoblade, Child Neglect, Dysfunctional Family, Eating Disorders, Gen, I Don't Know If I'm Honest, I think?, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overworking, Sad Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Stimming, Technoblade Is A High Schooler, Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Teenagers, The Texture Of Food Being Weird, Things Are Real Tense, internalized ableism, probably?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:02:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28591452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leggyman/pseuds/leggyman
Summary: Technoblade handles things in the only way he knows how to
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: MCYT One-Shots / Short Stories [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000011
Comments: 11
Kudos: 355





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**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE CHECK TAGS AND LET ME KNOW IF I MISSED ANYTHING. I'M PROJECTING AND DON'T KNOW WHAT TO CATEGORIZE MOST THINGS AS. THANK YOU, STAY SAFE.

Technoblade clutched the pencil sharpener between two fingers, looking at it with an almost reverence in his gaze. He pulled out the tiny piece of sheet metal he’d found a while back in some old sewing kit - the perfect size for removing the small screw. He set to work, twisting until the blade portion of the sharpener popped out. He set the other materials to the side and gripped the blade with his right hand.

Too much had happened far too quickly. Or, at least, for his standards it had. He woke up in the middle of the night again, unable to roll over and fall back asleep like any  **normal** person could. He laid in bed, staring at his popcorn ceiling and trying to establish patterns out of the nothingness for two hours before deciding it was an acceptable time to get up. He slipped on a thick pair of socks to avoid waking his parents up, who had the stresses of adult life and needed the extra hours of sleep. It didn’t matter that Techno sat at his desk for twelve hours straight most days, never feeling like he’d done enough for his online schoolwork. Nervousness about how much he’d have to do each day would keep him up or wake him up most nights, but that  _ hardly _ counted as a stressor. It was high school, the supposed best time of his life. Any stress he felt was nothing in comparison to what the future stored, and his own anxiety was his fault. He needed to work harder. Be better.

His stomach made the first noise of protest at eleven in the morning. His parents were awake by then, pledging to ignore him and focus on doing whatever busy-adult things they often yelled at him for not understanding (he could hear an episode of NCIS playing through the thin walls. It was the third, he thought). He was hunched over his desk, trying to remember specific forms and what exactly defined purple prose for AP Language, when his abdomen spasmed.

He hadn’t eaten since the afternoon prior (or was it the day before?), feeling as though he was wasting time by setting aside an hour to both prepare and eat. If he was ever asked by his parents - he wouldn’t be. They didn’t notice nor care - he’d go solely with that excuse. It  _ was  _ partially the reason. The main reason, though, was that the idea of eating made him feel ill. To feel texture on his tongue and on his cheeks and all throughout his mouth while eating, to swallow spit and mashed food that was crushed between his teeth long enough for it to become mashed all made the process of eating undesirable. He would rather be in a bit of discomfort than partake in that action. He’d never explain that bit of reasoning out loud, though, as it wasn’t something  **normal** people felt.

At five in the evening, he finally felt like he deserved a break - at least for an hour. He closed the laptop he’d been working on before he could second guess his decision, and walked into the kitchen. His mother sat at a chair at the dining table, a stack of papers in front of her she ignored, watching as his father sighed and clenched his fists in frustration over one thing or another. Techno couldn’t say he was overly concerned as the thick tenseness leaving him walking on eggshells in each of his actions was a familiar feature to the house. The clean, modern decor felt just as stuffy and clinical as the facade his ‘tight-knit family’ had become.

“Techno, honey, help your father with dinner,” his mother demanded in a tone far gentler than the threat disguised behind it.

He moved to stand by the fridge, waiting for his father to give him orders. The man was very much so a perfectionist, and helping in the house was always a precarious balance between doing enough for his mother to be pleased but being absent enough so his father didn’t feel like Techno was stepping on his toes.

Burritos were decided to be the meal of the evening, and Techno was placed in charge of making sure the meat didn’t burn. For any  **normal** person, this wouldn’t be a big issue. For Techno, his eyes stopped working the moment they needed to gauge how cooked through something was. His brain was untrustworthy to provide an accurate assessment when there wasn’t an exact way to measure. Sticking a toothpick in and making sure he came out clean he could handle. Stirring until there were ‘stiff peaks’ in the mixture was something he could not. Cookies and cardboard pizzas remained the bane of his existence. Too many times had his parents been in the middle of a movie he wasn’t invited to watch and asked Techno to check on whether the pizza was done for them. About half of the time he was scolded for taking it out of the oven before it was finished. After all, what idiot couldn’t tell when a pizza was cooked?

Being in charge of a visual cooking task, especially considering he felt his mother’s eyes burrow into the back of his head, left him on edge with a tight feeling in his chest. As he continued to stir the beef crumbles, head spinning with whether he was leaving a specific spot on the pan too long or if he’d already managed to burn it all, he subconsciously started rocking on his heels. The hand occupied with holding the pan handle started to drum a random beat he’d picked up from Wilbur. He swallowed the absent buzzing noise threatening to spill from his mouth, as even his subconscious knew that angered his parents the most of his  **abnormal** actions.

He was startled out of his beef-induced-panic by his mother ‘tsking’ her tongue. His entire body froze (except for his hand still stirring the meat. He couldn’t afford to have it burn and waste all that food that he would end up not eating anyway).

“You’re doing that…  _ thing _ … again,” she stated, distaste lacing each word, “learn to act like a  **normal** person.”

Techno mumbled an apology into the pan and continued with his prior task.

He never realized he was doing it in the moment, but each time when he noticed he cursed his body for not consulting with his brain first. In the safety of his room, he was free to hate himself for having nervous energy that could only be dispelled in the form of slaps and claps and finger snaps and every other minuscule movement you could think of. He was free to berate himself in peace when his legs felt like they were vibrating with energy and he tried to cure himself by attempting to read from a textbook while pacing his bedroom.

The moment he left behind his own closed door? It needed to turn off. His parents didn’t appreciate having an  **abnormal** son. He was an embarrassment to them, as he knew and as his parents reminded him of frequently.  **Normal** people didn’t get so excited they bang their wrists together whenever their friend over Discord laughed at a joke they made. It hurt each time his parents mentioned his  _ behavior _ , doing nothing but fuel the disgust he felt in his bones for himself.

He quickly excused himself after dinner, which consisted of him pushing the food around the plate and grimacing through each bite he took when either of his parents gave him an expecting look.

That left him sitting in his room, blade pressed against his thigh, pushing down and dragging just hard enough to feel a sting. He chuckled lightly to himself over the irony of having ‘blade’ in his name as he slashed another stripe into his thigh, parallel to the first but perpendicular to the second. He absently thought about how with a few more it was possible to play tic-tac-toe with his new wounds.

He was interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing, dropping the blade out of surprise. He flipped over the device and saw that Phil, Tommy, and Wilbur were all pinging him to join their call. He let it ring out the first time, quickly gathering the roll of toilet paper he’d shoved under his bed and cleaning up his mess. He set the blade in the cardboard bit and shoved the two items back into their original place. With grit teeth and more care than necessary, Techno slipped his pants back up before re-taking a seat at his desk chair.

He joined the VC himself, camera on like the rest of them had, and smiled. It wasn’t a fake smile, contrary to what his pulsing thigh would say. The only time he truly felt happy was with his friends. They didn’t care if he was  **normal** . His  ~~ family ~~ friends never scolded him for being himself. It was safe with them.

“Hallo.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed(?)  
> As mentioned, it's big projection hours. PLEASE let me know if I missed any tags. The last thing I want to do is trigger someone.
> 
> Stay safe :)


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